Death Is Easy, Life Is Hard
by The Illustrious Crackpot
Summary: Being brought back to life by the Dragon Balls was only the first step for those who had been killed during Demon King Piccolo's reign. But how do you learn to live with...your own death?


_A/N: I apologize in advance for knowing very little about PTSD. Most of this is modeled what little I've learned through fictional media as well as the exaggeration of less severe problems that I've dealt with in my own life._

**Death Is Easy. Life Is Hard.**

(The Illustrious Crackpot)

Kuririn did a lot of training at night now. It was the easiest way to avoid sleeping.

He stood on the beach outside the Kame house, vigorously stretching every muscle, flowing from one form to the next, the newly-replaced moon his only companion. The gentle lapping of the waves and the soft rustling of the palm trees in the wind would have been soothing to anyone else, but Kuririn wished he could shout, scream, send a tree crashing down with a kick, punch the ground hard enough to shatter the bedrock, _anything _to break the quasi-silence. But as it was, he tried to keep as quiet as possible out of respect for the house's sleeping inhabitants, even though it was killing him inside.

It was pointless stalling, but Kuririn continued his warm-ups for far longer than he needed, until finally he was forced to pull his limbs back in and stand straight and still. He stared unblinking at the moon, steeling himself. Then finally he squared his shoulders, settled into his stance, and threw a punch.

That was the plan, anyway. Instead, his body locked up and he remained frozen in place.

"C'mon," he muttered to himself, _anything_ to drown out the waves, the palm fronds, the impossibly loud thumping of his heart. "It's not real. You're okay. He can't _hurt_ you."

But still his body refused to obey him, paralyzed in place, just like every night.

And again, that shadowy form materialized from the depths of his mind into a looming figure standing imperiously across from him on the sand. "It's not real, it's not real, that's not _him_," Kuririn kept up the mantra, but the figure only became sharper in his mind, a hideous green lizardlike being with enormous wings, whose features became ever more grotesquely exaggerated the longer Kuririn stared. And suddenly he wasn't even on the beach anymore, he was in the back room of the Tenka'ichi Budokai and the monster was leering at him, and he was tiny and helpless while the monster engulfed the entire span of the room.

"It's _not_..." Kuririn croaked, but his throat had dried and he wasn't even sure he believed his statements anyways.

Then suddenly, even though Kuririn knew it was coming, even though he'd seen this every night for several months, even though he was on the beach outside the Kame house and this creature was long dead, Tambourine lashed out with a massive kick and cleanly snapped Kuririn's neck.

Even though the kick wasn't real, Kuririn fell crashing to the ground, demonic laughter echoing around him as he felt the pain _again_, the pain that wasn't real now, but the pain that _had_ been real once, once more than he had ever wanted it to be.

Only by biting his lip until the blood gushed forth did he manage to keep himself from screaming.

* * *

At first it had seemed that none of the victims resurrected from their deaths under Demon King Piccolo's reign were suffering any side effects. All of them, of course, were overjoyed to be alive and excitedly reunited with their loved ones, retaining all of their memories but without a single mark on their bodies to indicate what they had just been through. Of course, they all had horrific nightmares of their own deaths, but that was probably to be expected.

Only, the nightmares didn't _stop_.

Not for Kuririn, at least. For the first month, he didn't even have to be asleep for them to come—even just closing his eyes or entering a dark room was enough for Tambourine's face to leap out at him just before the monster's kick broke his neck. Eventually his eyes starting drying out because he was too terrified to _blink_. He'd tried to hide it from the others, of course—_they're some of the strongest people on the planet, the greatest martial artists, they've faced threats too great for the layman to comprehend, I can't show weakness around them_—but it was obvious that his jittery behavior and nonexistent sleep patterns were drawing concern.

"_Why don't you train with me?"_ Yamcha offered one day, trying to appear nonchalant. _"C'mon, let's have a sparring match. You've got to keep in shape."_

Kuririn agreed—_anything_ to keep his mind occupied and away from unbidden thoughts. So they had gone out onto the beach, the rest of their friends watching from the porch, and stood apart from each other on the sand. They each bowed ceremoniously, then Yamcha leaned into his starting position, arms up and fingers cocked, legs tensed and ready to spring.

Kuririn tried to do the same, but his eyes were locked on Yamcha and he couldn't move. _What's wrong with me?_ he tried to gasp, but just as his limbs were useless, so was his throat.

Yamcha didn't notice anything amiss, or he just assumed that Kuririn's stance—standing erect, feet planted apart, arms down at his sides—was a sign of confidence rather than paralysis. So he launched himself at Kuririn, pulling back a fist for a clearly telegraphed and easily avoidable punch.

But Kuririn didn't dodge. He _couldn't_. He took the blow full to the stomach, and even with Yamcha holding back, it knocked him straight off his feet and slammed him back-first into the sand.

It took Yamcha a moment to notice, after he had already reared back and pulled up his knee for a follow-up strike. But he managed to freeze in place, staring down at the prone Kuririn. Even considering Kuririn's shockingly slow reaction time, the punch shouldn't have hurt him _that_ much. So why was Kuririn _shaking?_

"_What's wrong?"_ Yamcha asked automatically, but still maintaining his pose. _"Kuririn, get up!"_

"_**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHAAAAAHHH!**__"_

The scream was hideous in its anguish, and even the spectators several feet away had to recoil from the force of it. Kuririn's arms had finally moved, but they were now crossed defensively before his face, the limbs shuddering nearly as spasmodically as the rest of the teenager's body. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaming rapidly down his cheeks, mouth stretched in a horrifying grimace of pure terror.

"_**I DON'T WANT TO DIE!**__"_

* * *

It had made things rough at times, but Kuririn had _never_ regretted dedicating his life to martial arts. But now that even the sight of a _gi_ made his chest heave with flashbacks of horror, he became suddenly aware of how little else he _had_.

"_C'mon, you can help me and my dad at the lab,"_ Bulma had tried, but his fingers shook too much for the kind of precision demanded by miniature mechanical construction, and the complex component names Bulma and Dr. Brief casually tossed around made his head spin.

"_I could use some help in the kitchen!"_ Launch had chirped, but being around that many knives was unspeakably uncomfortable.

"_Geez, man, you gotta LIVE a little!"_ had been Oolong's sage advice, spoken from a reclining position on the couch where he was watching some of Master Roshi's more questionable videos. _"Go outside! Head to the city! Try to meet some girls!"_

But even _that_ was beyond him. He'd spent so long forsaking normal social niceties in order to trade punches that he felt out-of-place in casual clothes, and even more so in a crowd of shopping, gossiping people in the middle of a city. As well, too much visual stimulation was even worse than too little. In a place as bustling as West City, every face in the crowd could be Tambourine's, every accidental jostle could be the kick that broke his neck. Besides, even if few people practiced it there, martial arts was still extremely popular in the city, and you couldn't pass a shop window without seeing martial arts paraphernalia or souvenirs from the last Budokai.

Without martial arts, he had _nothing_.

So he knew he had to _try_.

* * *

Even though he had to avoid looking at his reflection when he put it on, Kuririn dressed himself in his old uniform from Orin temple, the same one he had worn when he'd first come to Master Roshi for training four years before. After a moment's deliberation, he also put on the twenty-pound turtle shell he'd been forced to wear at the time, even though it was a little snugger than it had been back then. Then he and Master Roshi started going on day trips to the mainland where all of their early training had taken place, hoping to recapture Kuririn's martial arts ability by immersing him in more pleasant and exciting memories than the ones he'd been trapped in lately.

Of course, there was one vital element missing from this faithful recreation, but it really couldn't be helped...even though that one addition could have made all the difference.

The training went smoothly, better than either Kuririn or Master Roshi had been expecting. All the tasks he had to perform—jogging, delivering milk, plowing fields with his bare hands—were completed in record time, even considering how much stronger Kuririn had grown in the years since he'd first attempted them. Pretty soon, Master Roshi had to start devising newer, more challenging tasks just to keep up with him. As for Kuririn, he felt better than he had in weeks. If not for the recurring nightmares, he might as well have been back to normal.

But there was one difference, though, that neither of them realized until the end of the first month.

He _still_ couldn't throw a punch.

It didn't matter what the context—whether he was facing empty air, a punching bag, even if someone initiated a sneak attack to try to set off his reflexes or attempted the use of insults to goad him into striking. Whether or not the situation required him to think about it, he just couldn't _do _it. His arms refused to move. His legs, which could run for miles without the slightest sign of fatigue, were incapable of lashing out in the form of a kick. The only moves he found himself capable of making were defensive, though if asked to block a projectile he tended to miss more often than not. Within just a few months he'd managed to work himself up to the point where the sight of an opponent across the way wasn't enough to send him into spasms of terror, but he still couldn't endure the sight or sensation of combat moves without being paralyzed by the fear of a violent death.

"_Keep your hopes up!"_ Yamcha encouraged him over dinner, heaping an extra serving of rice onto Kuririn's plate. _"All martial artists hit a wall at some point. Yours is just..._higher_ than others."_

"_I still say you should just give up," _Oolong interjected, speaking through a mouthful of food. _"You've done as much as you can do and everyone who shows up from here on out is gonna be way stronger than you, so you should just take it easy and get out of the game while you still can. It worked for _me!_"_

"_That's because you're a lazy coward!"_ Pu'ar admonished him, causing the pig to splutter indignantly. _"Kuririn's not like you! He shouldn't have to give up just 'cus _you_ did!"_

The brewing slap-fight between the two animals was quelled by Master Roshi banging his walking stick on the table, making everyone jump (and sending food flying into everyone's faces). _"We can all agree that Oolong is a lazy coward,"_ he began, at which the pig reddened but did not respond. _"But should Kuririn decide to give up at this point, that would not make him the same."_

Kuririn had been staring listlessly at his plate during most of this conversation, but the surprisingly solemn tone of the old man's statements forced his eyes up. Though his expression was hidden by his sunglasses and beard, Master Roshi held Kuririn's gaze as he continued to speak. _"It may be a clichéd old saying by now, but it still rings true that discretion is the better part of valor. This is a powerful enemy Kuririn is facing now, the form of his beloved martial arts turned against him by trauma. Should he choose to cease his pursuit of his former craft, it would be a decision that would do him no dishonor, and might even be the more courageous course of action in this case."_

"_But,"_ Master Roshi went on, and Kuririn's heart clenched reflexively in his throat, _"I believe that Kuririn has enough power within him to overcome this obstacle if he so chooses. The path would be incredibly difficult, and it would undoubtedly cause him much pain to tread it...but should he achieve this goal, he will have become greater than even I can imagine."_

With that, the Master calmly sat back down in his seat, picked up his chopsticks, and resumed eating his meal. The others followed suit, and dinner concluded in silence.

For his part, Kuririn couldn't bring himself to touch his plate. He'd already made up his mind, after all, though Master Roshi's words weighed heavily on him. The old master wasn't one to speak of such things lightly, and besides that, he too had lived through the horror of his own death. Although Master Roshi's reaction to it wasn't as obvious or pronounced as Kuririn's, he was sure that if one removed the sunglasses from the old man's face it would reveal the heavily bagged eyes of sleepless nightmare nights, the aged horror and regret of so fatally failing to seal Demon King Piccolo back in his prison. As well, though Bulma would probably insist it was all part and parcel of being a lecherous old man, Master Roshi's inappropriate attempts on the women in his life had seemed to Kuririn to be occurring much more often lately—possibly an attempt to get as much as he could out of life in case it was unexpectedly cut short again. The idea that even such as the world-renowned Invincible Old Master was struggling with such demons made Kuririn feel less ashamed of his own plight, but by the same token, his inability to deal with it as easily as Master Roshi was incredibly discouraging.

He _would_ recapture his martial arts, or at the very least, defeat the memory of his horrible fate.

He _had_ to.

Because if he didn't...he'd _die._

_Again._

* * *

Kuririn lay dead on the sand for a full five minutes before he managed to calm his breathing and rise shakily on his elbows. The vision of Tambourine was gone, but the continued lapping of the waves mocked him in the monster's place. Rising to his feet didn't seem worth it, so he allowed himself to sit, breathing softly through his mouth, staring forcefully at his hands to keep the images of his death at bay.

He laughed, a small, pitiful laugh that broke his own heart just to hear it.

"Man..." he murmured, voice cracking as tears of embarrassment prickled in his eyes. "What would _Goku_ say?"

* * *

Kuririn had never wanted to resent Goku for not being there for him. He was training with _God_, after all, and probably wouldn't come back until the next Tenka'ichi Budokai in just over two years' time. It was hard to complain when it was such a great opportunity for his friend, and when it was Goku's meeting with Kami-sama that had reanimated the Dragon Balls and allowed Kuririn to be wished back to life.

Kuririn didn't _want_ to resent Goku, but he couldn't help it.

Goku was his _best friend_. They'd been through _hell_ together—well, Kuririn more so than Goku, if one wanted to take the phrase literally. And now, when Kuririn was in the most pain and needed a friend more than anything else...Goku was _gone_.

He liked the other inhabitants and guests of the Kame house, but he wasn't very close with any of them. He'd known Master Roshi the longest, but that was his _mentor_, far too intimidating to bare his soul to. He liked Bulma, Oolong, Pu'ar, and Launch well enough, but although he was sure that all (or at least _most_) of them would be sympathetic, none of them were martial artists and he doubted that they'd be able to understand what he was going through. Yamcha was the most likely to get it, but Kuririn really didn't know him that well, and besides, Yamcha tended to become incredibly awkward and embarrassed whenever a conversation wandered onto the topic of "feelings" (which was probably the reason why Bulma kept breaking up with him).

Not that Goku would necessarily be any better. But he wouldn't _know_ that now, _would _he?

Sometimes Kuririn tried to imagine how such a discussion with Goku would go, but the monkey boy was so hard to read sometimes that there were a lot of different possibilities. _"Gosh, Kuririn, I've NEVER felt like I was weak at martial arts!"_ his mental Goku would sometimes proclaim innocently, because his Goku was this effortless prodigy who never had to worry about anything because he was always perfect and _why am I so useless and weak compared to him it's because there's something wrong with me why do I have so many flaws_. Other times, his Goku would try to be more helpful and fail miserably, because _"Well, I don't really understand what you mean, but I'm sure you'll do well anyway because you're awesome!"_ was essentially what he was already hearing from the others, at least on a good day.

Thousands of different Gokus flooded his mind, each taking the shape of whatever anxiety Kuririn was battling on any particular day, or fitting the fantasy of what Kuririn thought he needed most at any given moment.

"_C'mon, Kuririn, you gotta do better than _that _or else you're _never _gonna catch up to me!"_ his Goku might playfully tease.

Or his Goku might loom disapprovingly over Kuririn, hands on his hips, proclaiming, _"I'm not gonna like you anymore if you give up on martial arts, Kuririn!"_

On nights when the nightmares were unbearable and his body too exhausted for him to get up and try to train the memories away, his Goku would gather Kuririn in his arms and cradle him, murmuring encouragingly, _"It's all right, buddy, you can get through this_," and these were nights when Kuririn's pillow would be wet with tears.

Some nights the visions of the Budokai's back room would be replaced by an earlier recollection, of Kuririn and Goku battling each other in the semifinal round, exhilarating and carefree and fighting until dawn without any clear victory. But these nights were few and far between.

"_I wish you were here,"_ Kuririn would sometimes mutter, and other times the more vehement, _"you _SHOULD_ be here."_

But either way, he wasn't, and Kuririn had to fight alone.

* * *

When his vision was no longer blurred and the sounds of his breath were no longer shakey, Kuririn tried tentatively to move his fingers.

He stared at his hands forcefully, blocking out the rest of his surroundings, and one by one his fingers curled into his palms and both of his hands were clenched into fists.

Kuririn held them like that for a moment, stubby fingernails digging into his flesh, then turned with a spasm and violently threw up onto the sand.

He gasped and he choked, wheezing painfully as the remnants of his meager dinner were squeezed out of his body, then sat back and cradled his stomach, eyes squeezed shut until the lapping of the waves had cleared away most of the disgusting debris.

Once he was sure it was all over, Kuririn wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand—a simple act, but it gave him pause.

The hand was still a fist.

Making a fist hadn't been a mental block for him, at least not since the first month of his return to life. It was turning it into a punch that was the problem. Usually as soon as his hand was in fist form, it was impossible for him to move his arm until he uncurled his fingers.

His breathing became shallow.

Slowly, almost not daring to believe, Kuririn slid his hand away from his face.

_It was still a fist_.

His hand hurt now, palm sore from the pressure of the fingers, tendons straining to keep the digits in their chosen shape, but he couldn't bear to release it.

_Maybe there was still hope._

Kuririn sat and stared at the fist for a full minute, even though it shook from the exertion, his fingers willing him desperately to unclench them and assume a more relaxed pose. But he couldn't do it. What if, once unclenched, he couldn't get it back?

Maybe it was too soon. Maybe it would be best if he took this victory for what it was and went back inside, went back to sleep, savored this moment in case tomorrow brought yet another failure—

"But Goku wouldn't do that."

It was barely a whisper, but it dragged Kuririn back to his feet, forcing his aching legs to stand upright. "Goku would keep going," he went on, tears already welling reflexively in his eyes as his clenched fist struggled to keep its form. "S-_sure_, he wouldn't be half as w-w-_weak_, it wouldn't take him half as _long_, but he'd d-_do_ it...and with a s-s-_smile_ on his face."

A loud gulp echoing in his throat, trying to force the tears back, Kuririn raised his gaze and stared across the sand.

Tambourine materialized almost instantly, as he always did, and Kuririn almost lost his grip on his fist. He was too big, he was too scary, he was in the back room of the Budokai and he was going to _die_ again—

"No. _Goku saved me._"

The fist that had been clenched at his side slowly inched its way up, and Tambourine shrank back. The Budokai's back room wavered. Tambourine no longer took up the bulk of the space, but looked smaller, almost human-sized.

And there was someone else.

The phantom Goku didn't even have to say anything. He just put his hand on Kuririn's shoulder, smiled at him, and stepped aside, giving him a clear pathway to his killer.

Goku wasn't here. But Goku would always be there for him, no matter where in the universe he was.

Kuririn tried to pull back the fist, but a sudden muscle spasm almost caused his fingers to uncurl, and he was struck with panic. The imaginary Tambourine noticed, and then the playback had returned in full swing. The monster charged at Kuririn and Goku wouldn't be able to help him, that leg was flying towards him, his neck was going to snap again—

_But not if he could stop it._

Even though it wasn't real, even though it was just another memory, even though these events were long past and reduced to nightmares for those who had experienced them...

Moving his arm was excruciating. It was as if gravity was weighing down on him with a hundred times the usual pressure. Every movement was met with resistance. Every inch had to be fought for.

But when the fist was finally thrust forward, it was like all that weight had been lifted.

The image of Tambourine shivered and disappeared, and it was night at the Kame house again, and the moon was bright and the palm trees were rustling in the wind and Kuririn stood on the sand with his arm outstretched.

The tears flowed freely now, but they ran over a smile, the anguished grin of one who's been trapped in darkness and has finally managed to scrape out a tiny glimpse of light. His arm fell to his side and his fingers uncurled with relief, and finally, for the first time in months, all his muscles relaxed.

This was just the first punch, he knew. It was still going to be a struggle to keep up his progress and get back into the flow of things. He might not even improve much for the next Budokai—it might be enough of a struggle to recapture his former level in that time.

But he could do it. He'd proved that.

And he was sure that, no matter what, Goku would smile at him.

And for that, it was worth it to live again.


End file.
